Two Red Roses
by Airealataiel
Summary: [oneshot] super angst, self mutilation. better summary inside.


Title: Red Roses

Author: Airealataiel

Rating: PG-13 for STRONG angst, cutting, death

Slash?: Implied, but no real evidence

Pairing: You'll see…

Spoilers?: Yes. A few. If you haven't read the 5th book, I would probably suggest you don't read this

Summary: Well, this one is a hard one to summarize without spoiling the story. Let's just say that … read the first paragraph but…don't associate it with the rest of the story until you've read the whole thing through.

* * *

**Two Red Roses**

A small, simple gravestone stood, very worn, in a corner of an ancient cemetery. Plain and run down by vines, one would think that the spirit of the person buried in such a place would be angry and vengeful. But actually, that's not even close to being true. The little plaque was surrounded by five larger gravestones. Those spirits had been the five closest people to him during his life, and now they could keep him company in death. Every year on March 25 a small woman with a hooded cloak would come to the small headstone and place on it two red roses …

* * *

My last chance to prove myself, gone to waste. My father is probably up in heaven right now staring down at me, shaking his head and saying, "I'm ashamed of you, son. I thought you could do better than that."

Well, I guess I didn't inherit his great Quidditch skills after all; no matter what anyone says, I know I will never be anything like my father. Nothing I ever do will please anyone. I can win almost every Quidditch game in my life, and that makes me Gryffindor's hero. But I lose one game and I'm instantly the one who ruined it for everyone.

There you go, Malfoy. Just one more thing for you to gloat about. I saw the manic glint in your eyes as you came speeding straight for me. If I hadn't swerved out of your path, you would have killed me. I'm just lucky that the bludger that collided with my head less than five seconds later didn't kill me.

I'd bet anything you planned that, but the Snitch being right there, that was just my bad luck. Well, in any case, you made sure that I saw your fingers close around that golden ball and your triumphant grin before I blacked out. I'll never forget the look on your face. You finally beat me, Malfoy. I give up; you win. Go ahead, throw it in my face.

These thoughts kept swirling through my aching head as I pushed myself up from the ground, found my glasses, and looked around. No one in the stands, no one on the pitch, no one on the grounds. I put my hand to my head; my fingers were instantly covered with the sticky blood that was running down the side of my face.

And when I looked at the ground where I had recently laid, left alone in shame after my loss, I saw a puddle of my own blood, and next to it, my broomstick…and two red roses…

** Flashback **_Dear Hermione,_

_I don't know how to express this to you, but there's something that I really need to tell you. I guess it's more of an admittance. I have to admit to you that I've been watching you for the past seven years. Watching you; everywhere you go, everything you do. Listening to you; every bit of advice, hearing every word to me you've spoken. I don't think you understand how much I clung to those words during hard times. You have been my hope, my dream, my encouragement; ever since I met you back in our first year at Hogwarts, you have been everything to me._

_I can't tell you how wonderful it felt to be seeing you again after a long summer every year; such long summers without youto bewith me. Every time you smiled it was like a piece of artwork, unraveling its beauty the more I looked at it. Every time you laughed it was like a song, so cheerful and joyous. Every time you cried, it was as if something inside of you was hurt and dieing, and all I wanted to do was hold you and wipe your tears and make everything okay._

_We shared so much time together, so many secrets, so many emotions. I guess that's why it came as a surprise to me when you and Ron started dating. I thought I had something so special that I had shared with you. I thought **we** were something special. I guess we weren't. And it especially pained me all those times when he hurt you; when you cried because of him, and I couldn't do anything for those tears._

_And I still can't do anything for those tears. But I want to. I want to make your world better again when it seems like it's not worth it, and I want to share the happy times with you. I want to show you that I care and know that my heart won't be broken. I want to love you._

_With love, _

_Harry _

After many days of contemplation and inner doubts, Harry finally decided. And with that, he placed the note on her pillow one afternoon when no one was around, along with two red roses…

** End of Flashback **

He shuddered and looked up at the sky. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious, or how long he had been standing there in the middle of memory. A chilly wind had begun to pick up, and one drop at a time, the rain began to fall. First, just a simple sprinkle, but steadily progressing into a heavy downpour. Harry, quite frankly, could care less whether or not he got sick. He simply stood there, letting the rain wash over himself, as he plunged back into memory.

** Flashback **

Harry slumped into his dorm, wet, muddy and exhausted after a long Quidditch practice. He kicked off his boots and with a little help from Ron, pulled off his gloves. After removing his soaking shirt and flinging it into a quickly mounting heap of dirty laundry, he pulled his pajamas on and crawled into bed.

It had been a week since he had given the letter to Hermione, and he hadn't heard back from her. Suddenly, it seemed as though they never saw each other, or maybe never even knew each other. She was never in the common room, nor the Great Hall, nor even the library, when he was. _'It's not like I expected her to write back,'_ Harry thought to himself. _'I just got my hopes up. Stupid, that's all.'_ But he was still, for some strange reason, disappointed.

As he laid back onto his pillow, under him he heard the crunching of paper. After ensuring that all of his room mates were clearly sleeping, he rolled over and clicked on a small lamp attached to the boarder of his bed. There, on his pillow, was a small white envelope.

Dear Harry,

I'm terribly sorry about all of this. You have no idea how sorry I truly am. But the thing is, I can't say that I can return your feelings. I just don't think we'll ever be more than friends. You're a great friend, Harry. Truly, you are. And I treasure your company more than you'll ever know. But I just don't think of you that way. I'm so sorry if I've hurt your feelings.

Sincerely,

Hermione

Next to the envelope were two red roses…

** End of Flashback **

He let the rain rush over him. Its powerful waves washed away reality, and he let it all go. No more Voldemort, no more prophecies, no more "the boy who lived", no more Dumbledore, no more Hogwarts, no more Hermione, no more anything. Just the rain and the roses.

He picked up the two roses, one in each hand, and twirled in the rain. Spinning, spinning, never stopping, just spinning. The water ran down him as if they were one; starting at the jet black hair, it trickled from the tips of his bangs and landed on his cheeks, where it mingled with the tears and slid to his chin, then dropped to the ground with a strange, bitter-sweet finality. Rain drops gathered in his palms and on the rose petals, whirring off in all directions from the tips of his spread fingers as he continued to spin.

He was a twister, and nothing was stopping him. Spin, spin, spin, as the rain cascaded down his body. He closed his eyes as he lifted his tear-streaked face to the heavens and opened his mouth in a silent scream. His face still turned up to the sky and his arms wide out to his sides, he sank to his knees in the mud. Slowly, he dropped his chin to his chest, his arms falling to his sides, and away from him rolled the two red roses…

_Sorry. Everything had always been sorry._

_"I'm so sorry your parents died, but at least you lived. You saved us all."_

_"I'm sorry you had to live with your terrible relatives, but they were the only ones left who could keep you safe from Voldemort."_

_"I'm sorry that you had to defeat Quirrel and Voldemort all on your own, but you have surely proven your courage."_

_"I'm sorry you had to battle Tom Riddle, once again alone, but now maybe you may begin to understand some more."_

_"I'm sorry you had to see Cedric die; he was truly an honorable young man. But you must know that it wasn't your fault."_

_"I'm sorry you had to see Sirius walk into your life and then out again when he passed on so suddenly. It could have been prevented, but you know it wasn't your fault."_

_"I'm sorry that you are nothing more than a weapon for the safety of the wizarding world, and that you'll have to spend all of your time training to beat Voldemort and save our sorryasses or die trying."_

_"I'm sorry that I don't love you, but we'll still be friends."_

Well guess what; sorry didn't cut it. All his life, Harry only heard 'I'm sorry.' But he never really knew what it meant, because nobody had ever said it to him and meant it. Felt it. Nobody was truly sorry. So, then, it must have been around…fifth year when he started…

** Flashback **

Blood… Red… Red blood... A long thin snake… A red snake, making its way down his arm. There were lots of them; going in all different directions, but all red…

Harry stood in his bedroom in the house at 4 Privet Drive, staring longingly out the window to the dark street below. Dried tears, stained to his cheeks, reflected orange light from the street lamps outside his window, where he so yearned to be. Faraway thoughts tried to penetrate his mind, but there was a barrier there now; one that nothing could get past. He was determined, his decision was set.

Slowly, he erased all thought. He sat at the edge of his bed, his feet flat on the floor, his forearms resting on his thighs, wrists up. In his right hand, he held a pocket knife. In the other, a thick rag for him to squeeze if needed. One thought drifted across his mind; Cedric. Then suddenly his barrier was down, and hundreds of thoughts, emotions, names, feelings; they all came whirring in. Mom, Dad, Cedric, Voldemort, Bertha, Crouch, Sirius, Remus. Soon, he was shaking with anger as the tears once again trailed down his cheeks.

But this time he was ready, he was set and determined. Gently biting his bottom lip, heplaced the blade to his wrist. Slowly, so slowly, he pushed down. Lightly at first, then harder and harder, until finally he drew blood. Pleased, he kept pressing and dragged the blade across his wrist. Once finished, he dropped the knife onto his bed, the silver blade shining in the lamp light of his small, dimly lit room. He then focused his gaze on his wrist.

The blood had crept out at first, like an animal hidden in a cave all of its life, suddenly permitted an exit but not sure if it was safe to leave. But once the first few drops came, it all rushed out, as if in a hurry to get away. Harry watched with anticipation, grinning widely as the angry red drops fell to the floor and splashed his feet. His blood was boiling over. He could feel its immense heat as it quickly enveloped his entire arm. The redness flowed over his arm, soaking and staining his pants and bedspread. He could only grin as he felt himself getting lighter and lighter. Finally the dizziness took him away.

** End of Flashback **

Harry smiled at the memory. He stood up then, deciding that he didn't want to catch pneumonia, and headed up the hill towards the locker rooms. While he walked, holding his broomstick and the two roses over his shoulder with his right hand, he turned his left arm wrist-side up and examined it. Many of the scars were white now. White like pale ghosts snaking up his arm against his tanned skin, only small reminders of what had once been there.

He examined them thoroughly, with each one came a different memory. There, the smallest one, straight across his wrist and only a faint white, was his first one, made three years ago. That night he had decided to end it all, but fate didn't seem to like him too much, and he was still alive when he had opened his eyes in the hospital.

But that night gave him something that he didn't think he'd ever have; freedom. It was then that he realized what he had to do. Realized that he had to stay alive, so that he could save the world from Voldemort. He realized that he had to give life a second chance. But what he also realized, along with making this decision, was that times were going to be hard, and there were going to be many, _many_ days when he'd have to decide whether or not he was going to spend another day on Earth.

So he did the only thing that he could think of; he cut. He knew now that cutting was a way to give himself power. It was the one part of his life that he had control over, that he himself could have power over. Cutting was like breathing; it had to be done.

Smiling, Harry went over the other ones. The longest one trailed from his wrist to his elbow; that one was for Sirius. He had been so shocked when Sirius had left him. He remembered how easily the glass from the broken magical mirror had sliced his skin. Then there was a medium sized one, right across the middle of his forearm. That one wasn't very long, but it was a half of an inch wide. That one was for Hermione. There were others. A few more for Hermione, some for Ron, and one for each person that he had caused pain or death. Plus there were the countless ones for himself; some to relieve the pain of Vernon's beatings, some to release anger at himself or Voldemort, some just to take his mind off of being alone and bored.

Finally reaching the locker rooms, Harry plopped down on one of the benches and started removing his muddy Quidditch robes. He let the water in the shower run while he was undressing so that it would be hot when he got in.

Harry heard a small click; his hand on the zipper of his pants froze and his head snapped up. Someone had just come in, he knew it. Whipping his wand out of his back pocket, he silently stood up and waited for the intruder to turn the corner.

His heart beat wildly in his chest, the sounds of the room seemed magnified a hundred times. He could hear the swish of the invader's robes, the click of his boots, the slop as a chunk of mud slid off hisfeet and hit the cement floor. He could tell right away that it was a Quidditch player, and sighed with relief. But when the boy turned the corner,Harry let out an inaudible gasp of surprise.

His eyes hit the black boots first and traveled up to the hem of a green cloak, then up toa pale face and pointed nose, red flushed cheeks, to the silver-blonde hair, then back down to the cold gray eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked coolly, sitting back down on the bench and placing his wand in the back pocket of his pants once more.

"I've come for a little chat," Draco replied just as calmly, though there was a hint of urgency in his voice that Harry hadn't picked up on.

"Listen, if you've come to gloat, I don't have the time. I was about to take a shower. Why don't you just take it out on me some time when there will actually be people around?" Harry stood up and walked to the shower to test the water, ignoring Draco's impatience.

Draco sighed and nodded his head, rather used to getting a less-than-interesting reply from Harry. Not satisfied yet, Harry turned and went back to the bench, going on.

"Come on, say it then. I know, I'm "The Boy Who Lived To Lose" right?"

Draco shrugged.

"Oh, what then!?" Harry said, raising his voice a little in annoyance. "You can't say you came in here to talk to me and still haven't thought up some kind of stupid witty name you can give me. You're the jackass of the grade, how can you not have anything yet?"

"I saw your arm," Draco remarked, in a whisper barely audible.

"What?" Harry asked, confused at the direct comment.

"I saw it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said angrily, but he flipped his left arm wrist-side down.

"I know how it feels," Draco continued in his drone like manner, taking a step forward with a 'click.'

"You know how _what_ feels!?" Harry said in exasperation.

"I've done it too."

"Leave me alone. Bother me some other time. I've really got to take my shower now," Harry replied quicly, backing up a step.

"I know…" 'click,' as he took another step forward.

"You're not even supposed to be here."

"If you'd just let me-" Draco took another step forward and reached out. Harry, who had been expecting the smaller boy to attack him, gasped with surprise and shock when he felt Draco's small white fingers running down hisQuidditch tonedstomach. Harry glanced up at Draco's face and when their eyes met, he noticed that it wasn't a cold, steely glare, as it had always been before.

Harry took a step back toward the showers. "What are you doing?"

'Click.' 'Click.' "Maybe we can help each other."

"What is wrong with you?"

'Click.' "This." Draco reached out, quickly this time. Grabbing hold of Harry's wrist, he flipped his arm over to reveal the many white scars that protested against the tan. Harry yanked his arm away and cradled it with his right hand as if it were something precious, taking yet another step backwards.

"What do you care about what I do to myself? It's none of your business."

'Click.' Draco slid up the left sleeve of his Quidditch robes. 'Click.' He slid up the sleeve of his shirt. 'Click.' He shoved the parchment white arm at Harry. Harry, for the first time, noticed the sad expression on Draco's face. Looking down, he noted the many angry slashes across the small Slytherin's wrist. "You see?"

"But what does this have to do with me?" Harry asked in confusion, still trying to get away from Draco.

"Everything." And before Harry knew what was happening, Draco had flung himself at Harry; wrapping his arms around Harry's waist, Draco buried his face in the soft curve of Harry's neck. Harry could feel Draco's tears rolling down his own body. Draco,barely reaching Harry's eye level, seemed like asmaller brother to him, and all Harry wanted to do was make him stop crying so that he'd let go of him.

"It's okay. Really," Harry said awkwardly, gently taking Draco's thin arms and lifting him off of his chest. He didn't let go of his arms. Draco's eyes were misted over with more newly forming tears. Ripping his arms out of Harry's grasp, he fell forward and started to pound his fists on Harry's chest.

"All I ever wanted was for someone to love me. My parents never loved me. Girls never loved me. I never had any friends. How come you have everything? You have fans. You have friends you can trust. You have people to help you up when you're down. All the girls want you. All the guys want to be you. You're beautiful. I wanted you to love me, but you only ever wanted Granger. Why couldn't you love me?" Draco shouted into Harry's chest, still pounding at his stomach.

Harry, mortally afraid, said, "I'm sorry Draco. I just don't feel that way about you."

Suddenly, Draco stopped pounding his fist. He stopped shouting. He pushed off of Harry's chest, sniffed once, wiped his eyes and said bitterly, "I know you don't." He took a minute to wipe away any evidence of tears. He then turned around and began to walk out of the room. Halfway to the door, he bent down and picked something up. Turning around again, he walked back to Harry and placed in his hand the two red roses…

Harry stood there with the roses in his hand and watched Draco leave. Suddenly, it dawned on him what had just happened. He had a sudden urge to cut. An urge so strong that he started scratching his arm just thinking about it. He knew now what Hermione must have gone through.

_'She doesn't love me, but she cares about me. She didn't feel that way about me, but she didn't want me to suffer,'_ Harry thought. And he realized then, that that had been his position with Draco in what had just happened. As he thought about it, he could only hope that Hermione hadn't ever felt guilty enough to do what he was about to do.

Stepping into the shower, Harry tried to ignore the recent incident. He tried to let it go, but found it hard to do. So many new thoughts were running through his mind. And he still had to cut. Cut, cut, cut. The urge wouldn't go away. He started looking around frantically. Finally, distressed, his looked down to check the length of his fingernails, and was surprised to see that he was still clutching the two red roses…

He stared at them oddly. Just two flowers, and yet the more he thought about it, the more significant they became to him. He stood in the same spot, not doing anything, for many minutes, simply pondering the roses. Finally, he snapped back to life and took the roses into his right hand. Using the thorns on the stems of them, he carved deep into his arm the two most unimportant, meaningless words that were ever spoken. That could ever be spoken. The two most insignificant words in his life; I'm sorry.

Smiling, he used the blood from his arm and painted two roses on the shower wall in front of him.

* * *

It was a small funeral. Everyone in the wizarding world obviously knew of his death, but few people attended the service. Most of them were angry. For, after all, they had depended on him to save them all. And now that he was dead, they found out the real truth. They found out about the prophecy, and how he really _was_ intended to save them all. And that, of course, made everyone mad.

Why should the fate of the entire world be placed in the hands of a depressed seventeen year old boy? And why, no how, could he be so selfish as to take his life, knowing all along that he was condemning the wizarding world, and many muggles as well, to a doomed future?

And thus the reasoning went that most people didn't go to the funeral. In fact, so few people went that it was held by a muggle priest in a muggle graveyard in a small town unknown to most people in the world. Hermione stood nearest the casket, tears running silently down her cheeks. Her face was buried in her hands. Ron stood right behind her, one hand on her shaking shoulder. Beside him stood the rest of the Weasleys, all who seemed so surprised that he was truly gone. Albus Dumbledore stood on the other side of Molly Weasley, and next to Dumbledore stood Remus Lupin. Neville Longbottom stood by Hermione, staring at the casket in shock. Draco Malfoy was alone, separated from the group. Ron was having a fit about him going. He didn't understand why he was there, but didn't say anything.

After the service was over and the priest had left, many people left in a hurry. All of the Weasleys left first if fear of Molly breaking down too early and not being able to disapparate home properly. Neville left shortly after them. Ron ushered Hermione to leave, but she hesitated, so he said he'd wait for her at the Burrow. Draco stayed put where he was for quite some time, trying not to let anyone see his tears or hear his quiet words. After he finished, he too left. Albus could not figure out what to do. His sparkling blue eyes welled up with tears, which spilled over the edges and down his wrinkled cheeks. Remus had to turn away.

Finally, Hermione stood alone by the casket of her best friend. And that's when it hit her. The finality of the situation. Her best friend in the world, gone. And then, and there, she realized that she really _had_ loved him all along. Her heart clenched and tore at her chest, beating so painfully that she thought it might kill her as memories flooded through her mind. She fell to her knees and flung her arms around the casket, resting her head on her arms; she stayed there for hours.

Finally, all cried out, she stood up on shaky legs. A fierce wind had picked up, and her black skirt billowed angrily asgray clouds crossed the sky, blocking out most of the light. The icy wind blew her hair around her face. And as rain drops started to fall, she began to walk away. But before she left, she dropped onto the casket a piece of paper with two words: I'm sorry. On top of the paper she placed two red roses…


End file.
